Fell

Fell

Author: wanderingsmith
Started jan 2019
Summary: It was not the beginning, but it was *a* beginning.
Thorin meets Bilbo briefly during the Fell winter.
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: I ain't got no money, and nobody'd be daft enough to pay me for this. As it is thought, so let it be said; you make the toys, I play with 'em..

AN: this was 95% written back in apr-august 2014
at the time with grateful help and thoughts from overtherisingstar, mithen and bofursunboundbraids, and with inspiration and handholding from nyruserra now, to get the last 5% actually completed!

Wiki canon: Bilbo born T.A. 2890, Fell Winter started end 2911. hamfast TA 2926 (he has 3 sibblings).
But I changed when Bilbo's parents died.
Braids religion: different than in canon.
Pretty pic that makes me see the characters here :) http://manic-intent.tumblr.com/post/40170069211/fassabendover-i-cannot-guarantee-his

per wiki: The form of the brigandine is essentially the same as the civilian doublet, though it is commonly sleeveless. However, depictions of brigandine armour with sleeves are known

For one so small, You seem so strong
-Phil Collins, You'll Be In My Heart

TA 2911

The ominously grey clouds that had seemed to appear out of nowhere an hour or two ago had finally opened on the waiting world, and Thorin stared at the already heavy white curtain grimly. He was going to have to find shelter soon; continuing to travel would be foolish even for someone who didn't regularly lose his way. And the Blue Mountains were still at least a week's travel away even without this forsaken weather or getting lost. And the bitter cold was making him feel every one of his long years, for all that he was a dwarf and had near a Man's lifetime still left to him.

Unfortunately, he'd started hearing distant warg howls, of all things, under the cover of those clouds, and knew he couldn't simply pitch his tent in the open unless he wanted to end up as orc-bait. He wanted a defensible position at his back even more than shelter from the true storm winds no doubt following behind the gusts that were starting to tug at his cloak. At least the steadily growing size of the strange twisted trees in this forest gave him hope he might find a place to burrow down with an actual wall of earth at his back, rather than the less secure trunk of a tree.

Though the simple truth was that he was more concerned about wargs being so far South at all. Could the creatures really have recovered so much of their numbers since Azanulbizar? He'd heard Men speaking tensely of a too-dry summer in the last several towns he'd worked, but surely that wasn't reason enough for a warg pack to wander so far when winter had not yet started to make game scarce. Unless the North had had an even worse season.

And where were the Dúnedain for the creatures to have gotten this close to the heart of halfling country? If the Men could not hold back the beasts from these lands, the numbers that would end up attacking the Blue Mountains could force the dwarrows to retreat behind their gates. Dís had done wonders building a strong, and even moderately prosperous, settlement for what remained of their people, even under the thumb of the Broadbeams as it was. They *had* gates they could close to attack, now. And though Thorin was unpleasantly aware of the diplomacy he would be forced to bring into play, he had fair hope their landlords would make efforts to keep from being a weak point in the defences of Durin's folk.

Alone in the falling dark of the winter's first snow and facing such a grim future, Thorin could admit, in the shameful depth of his own mind, that he would rather bear the bitterest cold as a mere scout in the Wild than to try to adapt to actually governing, even in the beggarly halls of their exile and with Dís at his side. He had led his people in war and had no qualms to do so again; but the rest of his life had been spent searching out all their scattered people to send them to Dís, while taking whatever work he could to send the settlement funds. If he'd spent 5 years' worth of the last 140 giving rulings from a hall, he would be surprised. He often wondered if, now that as many of their people were gathered as were likely to be found, he might spend his remaining years working the Blue Mountain forges, even pale shadow of Erebor that they were.

For all that he remembered all the lessons he'd had as a dwarfling before the Lonely Mountain was taken, he'd not been old enough to be responsible for any decisions then, only old enough to stand next to the throne as another of his grandfather's treasures, and stand with the guards as a living symbol of their king. Most of the life he had lived had made *this* king more of a smith and common warrior than a diplomatic ruler. And tramping through a forest in old leathers and ragged furs, on guard for wargs, was more appealing to him than wearing the finest silks and jewels while bending the council to his will. Even if Erebor were not lost beyond sane hope, even in the majesty of those golden halls... Thorin feared, very deep down indeed, that he was not the leader his people needed.

If his grandfather could read his thoughts from the Halls of Mandos, he would disown him, he thought in mild disgust for his own weakness. He was an heir of Durin the Deathless! He could accomplish anything he set himself to, and that foolish council *would* bend to his will!

All such brooding was set aside when he heard the screams.

Axe and sword both flying to his hands, the sounds of pain and fear had him running and leaping at breakneck speed without even halting to clip back his hair. Whatever the passage of time seemed like while scrambling through the snow-covered and tangled forest, with a pack on his back and weapons in each hand, it couldn't have been more than a few minutes before he burst into a small clearing. A child with a short staff was standing on the far side, between what were obviously bodies on the ground and three wargs, their hindquarters now a few paces from the reach of Thorin's sword.

"Khazâd ai-mênu!"

The roar as he held his axe at guard and swung Deathless in a high arc had the desired effect and the creatures abandoned their defenceless victim to turn to him. He followed his sword's natural movement to end its arc by hamstringing the rear legs of the nearest beast, changing its threatening snarl to a yowl.

Still letting the sword's momentum free, he spun with it, knowing he needed every advantage, eyes flying to track his opponents, sending his battle-axe upward to slice open the belly of the next creature, already almost turned to leap at him.

Too close! Having ended up between the dropped hind-end of the first and the sidestepping body of the second as it screeched, he had to duck deeply to avoid the first one's teeth, coming out of the movement with Deathless rammed up through its jaw, blood splashing on his boots, narrowly missing coating his front, and hopefully high enough to kill it because he felt the other move and knew he had to turn *now*.

His axe-arm powered upward to gather strength, body following it and his head turning to find the nearest target area; unfortunately leaving his sword behind, seeing as pulling it needed a different angle than wielding his axe. With a wordless cry, he threw all his strength into sending the sharp axe blade onto the second's spine, too near his own shoulder-height with the creature still standing, relieved he had gotten enough power behind the blow when he heard the resulting crunch of a death-strike, but forced to let go of the weapon now stuck in bone instead of having slid between vertebrae.

Diving for where Deathless lay, sticking out of the chin of the first dead warg, he took hurried stock beyond his two fallen foes, swearing and rolling further when he saw the third about to leap at him.

"No!"

The high-pitched shout pulled both Thorin's and the warg's attention, and Thorin was rushing for his blade before his eyes finished opening wide. That foolish child had swung its little staff at one of the creature's rear legs, obviously for the single purpose of drawing its attention; and now he had it, and if Thorin did not get his weapon into the fray-

Even as he leapt up with Deathless extended, he heard the child scream and saw him fall, though the warg had, oddly, still not pounced when Thorin landed on its back and grabbed a hank of fur at the back of its neck and used it to swing himself down and sideways and repeat the throat stab that had slain his first foe.

Letting go of the ruff, he dropped to the ground with another roll, made clumsy by his pack, before rising and reaching for the child's frail body to easily lift him and set him on his feet away from the creature's death-throes, avoiding either of them getting covered in gore.

Swivelling his head to be sure he could not see further threats, his eyes widened at the sight of a fourth dead warg, off to the side of the bodies the boy had been protecting. A staff like the boy's buried in its throat.

An affliction he now noticed the last one he'd killed also had. Impressed at the strength, as well as the courage that the child had shown distracting the beast in the first place, Thorin looked down, meeting surprisingly mature, but pain-filled eyes only a few inches lower than his own. He nodded, trying not to be too abrupt in deference to what struck him as near panic in the lad's body language under that loose coat, "I thank you for the help."

It took a noticeable few moments before the young halfling, which Thorin was now certain this was, looking at the features already set with adult character in that short, though surprisingly thin, considering how halflings had always been described to him, body, responded in a strained voice much deeper than his shout had been, "You're w- welcome. But I- I owe you my life for-" he waved at the bloody clearing of dead wargs and Thorin noticed blood soaking the boy's shredded sleeve.

Waving off the thanks, he bent to retrieve Deathless to slide it into its sheath and shrugged off his pack, then turned to look at the bodies the halfling had been protecting.

"They're dead."

He turned back at the halfling's dull words, too familiar with shock not to recognize hints of it, even in the un-familiar un-bearded features. As little patience as he had for people who turned a blind eye to the inherent cruelty of life, Thorin still found himself shifting to stand between the lad and the sight of his fellow hobbits dead, jaw clenched in tired regret that the Morgoth-spawned creatures had taken more innocence from this world. "Yes. They are."

A sharp gust of wind pulled his attention away from the wounded eyes that had strangely held him; distracted him. The snow was increasing; they needed to find shelter, and quickly. Looking back down, he could see the lad was shivering as he stood, his long coat stylishly cut, but not near thick enough, nor designed to properly cut the wind from the equally unfit for longterm exposure to this weather clothes it clearly exposed, and his shocky gaze wandering between the bodies and Thorin.

He held his hand out, dimly registering that it was covered in warg-filth, trying to reason away his urgent need to leave right *now*, trying to think clearly enough to keep himself from antagonizing someone as he so often did. That was too much blood for such a small body to lose so quickly, he could not afford to leave it untreated. "We need to find shelter if either of us is to survive this storm. Will you let me bind your arm? Will you let me help you?"

The halfling focused on him and took a shaky breath, obviously trying to look brave, not knowing that he'd already proven himself beyond doubt to the dwarf. "My na- name is B- B- Bilbo Baggins."

Thorin bowed his head formally, "Thorin son of Thráin. At your service."

The lad awkwardly bowed back, "I- home is- we- we were on the way to Brokenborings when the- they-"

Thorin followed the wide eyes to the downed beasts, snarling in disgust, "They are wargs. Creatures bred by orcs."

Master Baggins' eyes widened, staring at the dead creatures for an instant before frowning back to Thorin seriously, "They- they shouldn't be here. I've n- not heard of wargs anywhere near the- the Shire since- since the battle of Greenfield, 160 years ago. Since the Rangers started guarding us."

"No, they should not be here; but they are. And it is not safe for us to be in the open like this." Thorin gritted his teeth, swallowing his rising voice down to a growl, "Your arm?"

"Oh.. Sorry. Yes."

With permission given, Thorin did not hesitate. Throwing his furs over the thin frame of his small companion to try to keep the shock from allowing the cold to take hold in him, he crouched down and hurriedly used some snow to scrub the worst of the blood and other other gore from his hands, then opened the cuff of the lad's shirt, well-made but too thin to be of use against the elements, quickly but carefully working his injured arm out of the mostly-whole coat and rolling up what was left of the once white shirt sleeve, snarling soundlessly at the deep teeth scratches; he had been lucky the jaw had not closed. Remembering taking care of his nephews when they were young and unused to pain, he sang quietly to distract his patient as he worked loose the ragged slices of shirt material and used handfuls of unsoiled snow to clean the wounds as best he could, then reached for his pack to find his wound salve and the prepared strips of old cloth he kept to make caring for an injury quick. The material of the halfling's shirt was the sturdy kind of quality, and even sliced it should serve as bandage under the coat's feeble protection.

Thoughts already moving on to their next steps and debating what the safest course was, he spoke up, hoping to distract the lad and get information at the same time, "Do you know where we are?"

"We heard the howls and my-... we- home was the nearest shelter. But then they were closer and we thought we could hide in the trees-"

"That would not have saved you from wargs. They can bring most trees down-" Thorin stopped, looking up as he felt his patient shudder. Regretting having to add to the lad's fear when he was already weakened, he softened his voice, "I would not wish you to make the mistake when I am not near, halfling."

"Hobbit."

Not understanding the insulted frown, Thorin raised a brow, once again too easily distracted from their situation, "Hobbit?"

The lad glared down at him mutinously, "We are no more *half* of something than you dwarrows are. No dwarf would stand to be called half of a Big Folk, and no hobbit appreciates it."

Blinking in furious shock at the very *thought* of being called *half*.... well and good. "Very well. Hobbit." He glanced to the bodies besides them and back up to the young *hobbit*, knowing the weight of his words, "We cannot remain here, Master Baggins. We will freeze in the open and there could be more packs near. How close is home?"

He held the gaze as the lad's widened, an objection obvious in his expression. One he understood perfectly: leaving the bodies of dead comrades for predators was a harsh decision that never got easier to make. "The soil froze too hard these past weeks; I cannot bury them, nor can we afford to carry them."

"An hour." The young hobbit tried to clear the obvious anguish from his throat, "In g- good weather, an hour away."

The dwarf could see out the corner of his eyes that the curtain of white was now thick enough to penetrate into the forest; cross-country in such worsening weather, an hour could be a day, even assuming the hobbit had a better sense of direction than Thorin and they did not get turned around. Exposure would kill them long before they got to safety, even if wargs did not hasten the end. Sliding the lad's arm back in its sleeve and smoothing the stiff wool over his makeshift bandage, hoping it would be enough to stop the bleeding, Thorin stood, "Then we will stay in this forest. I had hoped to find a large enough tree that its roots could provide shelter. Come." Plan made, he grabbed his pack and then automatically laid a hand on one of the youth's shoulders to make sure he followed, looking for the warg he'd left his axe in.

When the hobbit slipped out from under his hand, Thorin's head whipped back with a frown, only to catch his breath as he saw the youth crouch down next to one of the dead hobbits, the flowers decorating a thick dress implying a she-hobbit to his otherwise uncertain judgement. "Hobbit. We do not have-" His brows rose in shock at the controlled glare the young hobbit turned his head to send him.

"We were gathering food supply information for the Thain. I will NOT have their d-" Thorin felt his heart go out to the youth at the break, waiting respectfully, if with an impatient hand on Deathless and his eyes scanning for danger, as the lad turned back and shuddered his way through his grim task, still muttering with anguish. Thorin remembering a young dwarf who would not have taken an offer to take away his tasks simply to save him further nightmares.

"Will *not* have them d- d- die in vain. There is famine coming; not enough crops survived the summer, and that frost destroyed more." When he looked up at Thorin, there were tear tracks on his face, but he only spoke quietly, "Would you retrieve the staffs? I'm not sure I'd be able remove them."

Refraining from his instinctive dismissal of such paltry items, Thorin gave him a quick but respectful head bow and hurried to the furthest one, his warrior's heart still impressed that the smaller and untrained hobbits had managed to kill one of the creatures on their own. He found another staff half buried by the warg's bulk and slid both through the strap for his axe, then felt the youth coming to his side as he jerked the one out of the creature Thorin had finished off.

"You're hurt!"

He followed the hobbit's eyes to his arm between the bracer and sleeve of his brigandine, seeing a small tear with blood streaked around it. Tensing the muscle and feeling the sting of a small cut, he looked back up with a shrug, "It is nothing, mim azaghâl, we ne-" He blinked to again find himself ferociously glared at for the second time in minutes.

"I am *not* a child. And you-"

Grimacing as he realized what he'd said, Thorin interrupted, "I did not call you child." The continued accusing stare did not surprise him and he gritted his teeth, annoyed at himself, "It is Khuzdul. It is not to be shared with strangers."

He could have left it at that, save that the sullen look of acceptance that made Thorin's stomach tighten faded into a not-unexpected vacant stare at the two bodies behind the dwarf; which hurt worse, for all that he badly needed to get them out of this clearing. He had felt that shock himself, many times. And even being among enemies did not stop one from freezing sometimes. When the dark eyes began to shine with tears, Thorin laid his hand back on a small shoulder, waiting for those hurt-filled eyes to turn to him, suddenly finding no strength in himself to add to that sorrow merely out of suspicion for strangers.

This hobbit had already shown that he understood loyalty: the dwarf found himself needing to believe he could trust his silence. Just this once, Mahal, let there be some good in the wider world past his kin. He leaned to press their foreheads together, hoping the dwarven custom would be understood, "I grieve with thee, mim azaghâl," he gently stroked a tear away with two gloved fingers, "Little warrior." He waited for the surprised eyes to meet his, and then widen in recognition of the translation, "They would not wish you to sacrifice your own safety. We *must* go."

"I know."

Relieved at the return of understanding between them, Thorin stood, handing the hobbit his staff, "Come, I need to retrieve my axe."

They walked the few steps from the hobbit's dead kin to Thorin's weapon, and once it was on his back with the hobbit's spare staffs, he looked at the forest around them, then down at his companion, frowning to catch him shivering. Thorin's open furs reached well to his feet, but left his neck, head and arms exposed as badly as his coat did. He shifted his hand to the lad's far shoulder so Thorin's cloak shielded him and then pulled him closer to share what heat he could, walking them to the nearest tree so his returning tension could at least have that trunk covering his back while they spoke. "Do you know these woods enough to know a place we can shelter?"

Feeling the smaller body trustingly come close to his side should not have given his tired and worried spirit strength. And yet Thorin could feel himself settling; the dangers just as real, but easier to slot into a controlled corner of his mind.

"You said you were looking for roots? How will that shelter us from wargs?"

"It will not. Nothing but stone will protect from wargs. Large roots, or better, roots having exposed an earthen hollow, would provide shelter from the weather. And provide a protected side if we are attacked."

Ice pellets came on a gust of wind as the hobbit frowned in thought and Thorin closed his other arm around him, the sharp cold getting through even *his* clothing. They could not afford to search long, they would have to settle for a tree at their backs and snow piled as a windbreak, if it came to that. He looked down with a frown at the hobbit's bare feet; he'd heard they never wore boots, but surely this was foolish...

"Yes! Yes I remember one!"

Thorin's brows raised a bit at the arm suddenly around his waist and tugging him authoritatively, but followed willingly.

-------------------------------------------

Before they found the hobbit's remembered tree, the late winter afternoon turned as dark as snow would leave it, and that snow was falling so thickly that Thorin would doubt his guide's chances of finding his destination, save that he continued to recognize landmarks and adjust their course with confidence. Nonetheless, between the inches accumulating on the ground, and both of their constant shivering, if they did not find it soon, it would be too late to save them.

With the route in the hobbit's hands, Thorin kept his attention tightly focused on listening for any sounds of attack, refusing to have *his* back broken by a surprise leap, which one of the dead hobbits seemed to have suffered, and leave his companion defenceless again. The more he thought of it, the less he liked the presence of those four creatures. Wargs hunted in much larger packs; those had most likely been a scouting party. So how close was the pack? And how quickly would their orc-masters notice the missing scouts? And *where* were the Dúnedain?? Of all Men, those were some of the very few that Thorin would not have expected to fail so badly as to allow wargs to enter half- *hobbit* territory.

"There!"

The hoarse word was not near a shout, but as they were walking huddled together, Thorin heard, and followed the arm pointing at a darker shadow ahead, seeing the bandage he'd made show past the sleeve: bloodstained. A few more stumbles through treacherously snow-covered tangles and they found themselves before two trees with trunk wider than both of Thorin's arms' reach, so close that their thick roots, after likely having hit good stone somewhere below ground, had grown on the surface, tangled together. And formed a hollow where a hobbit and a dwarf could huddle.

Thorin grinned down into the brief beaming smile that changed his companion's stiff features into a completely different world of soft joy, "Well done, Master Baggins."

He laid the weapons he carried by the entrance and shrugged off his pack, taking a moment to extend his senses to the forest, listening for any sound outside their breathing and the angry wind fighting the trees. Finally forcing himself to be satisfied with their momentary safety, he crouched right next to Deathless and pulled out the salve and his oldest undershirt before turning to the hobbit watching him attentively. He nodded at the lad's forearm, blood seeping worrisomely into view, "Let me look at that arm again; that bandage did not do enough."

The lad's grimace and hesitation in offering the arm told him clearly enough that it was painful, battle-heat no longer hiding the pain, and bruising having had time to spread its damage around the injury, not to mention infection all too likely settling in. He made his fingers as careful as he could and started singing the first old song that came to mind as he undid his knotted strips and pulled off the destroyed shirt sleeve, flinching as he heard the hobbit's choked cry at the pull on inflamed flesh. Thorin looked up, and, alarmed at the lad's suddenly pale skin, spoke quickly, "Lean on me while I work, mim azaghâl, and keep watch on the forest. I'll be as quick as I can." He waited as the lad's un-hurt arm came to rest on the dwarf's shoulder and his chest leaned on the top of Thorin's head, and then looked back down at the uncovered injury.

Singing only loud enough to provide distraction, just as the request of watch duty had been, he once again took snow, glad the ice pellets hadn't continued and made the powder too hard for the use, to wipe the blood off, his jaw clenching at the sight of the angry red skin underneath. There was no pus yet, but this did not bode well. He swallowed, then spoke quietly, unable to look up without disturbing Master Baggins' position, "I need to clean this better, mim azaghâl, warg bites infect easily. But it will hurt."

"I understand."

With a deep breath, Thorin took more snow, deliberately picked a song in Khuzdul in the hopes that the strange language would pull the lad's attention, he squeezed the hobbit's forearm above the injury to try to deaden some of the feeling, and then he cleaned inside the bites, flinching at the clenched-off shriek too near his ears. He did his best to ignore the pain he was causing in favour of making sure he gave the whole wound a thorough wipe with the snow. When he was done, he quickly filled it with salve and liberally coated the area around it before tearing enough of his old shirt to properly wrap around the forearm several times. With a bad feeling for how often he might have to do this before he could find help, he reused the bloodied shirtsleeve as a last cover and the old knot strips to tie it off.

Rising slowly so the hobbit could straighten ahead of him, he was only slightly surprised to have him meet his eyes with stubborn bravery, not hiding the tears of pain but not asking for pity.

"Now yours."

Brows flying up at the clear command, Thorin was about to argue when the hobbit picked up his arm and turned the bloody elbow toward them, "You just said they get infected."

Glaring into the tear-streaked but equally strong glare did not change the lad's expression one whit and Thorin finally agreed, knowing if was a good point. He undid his bracer and let the hobbit awkwardly roll up his now blood-stiffened sleeve, glaring at his arm when it was exposed. Though not near as infected as Master Baggins', nonetheless he would have to salve it for at least a few days if he did not want to risk his arm stiffening before it finished healing. And with wargs about, he could afford no such weakness.

Though he could have done it himself, he let the hobbit doctor it, knowing well enough that doing something made life easier to bear during times such as this. And they would have many hours of nothing whatsoever to do, soon. Once he was bandaged and the bracer back in place, he quickly touched their foreheads together with a muttered "Thank you." Then, about to reach for his pack, he nodded at their shelter, "Remove as much of the snow as you can. Push it against the roots to make an added layer of protection, but clear the floor so we do not sit in cold wet." As the lad crawled in on his good arm, awkward but eager, Thorin put away the salve and rag and then pulled out the leather sheet that made his tent, unrolling it and folding it enough to slide into the shelter when his companion was done, then made sure the blankets and food were easily reachable.

By then the floor was clear enough and he stepped over, carefully putting his pack to one side, then clumsily sliding in next to the hobbit. Looking around himself at the small space, he changed his mind and crawled back out, waving impatiently at the confused hobbit, "Out." Once the lad had crawled out with a frown at the dwarf, Thorin laid the leather down on the bottom, as far back as he could sit upright, then crawled back in, settling on it as comfortably as even light armour would allow and running the cover up the side of the hollow, then over top himself and down the other side to be held almost at roof-level by his pack. Pulling out one of the blankets, he threw it over his shoulders, finally setting himself with his back resting on thick roots and with one knee bent and the other straightened out.

Then he waved at the watching hobbit, "Take the furs off, they'll serve you better as a blanket, then come sit here," he patted his straight leg, gaze firm to try to forestall any arguments, "We'll both need the warmth before we manage to get out of here, and it will be less crowded this way than trying to sit side by side." He could see the pride beginning to stiffen tired features, but a gust of wind, which Thorin was glad was currently blowing at enough of an angle away from their door that he hardly felt it, ended with a hobbit awkwardly scrambling around his legs.

He took the furs out of the hobbit's hands and helped him settle his back half against Thorin's chest and half on his bent leg, then threw the ragged but still warm garment over him, reaching to be sure those uncanny bare feet were fully covered. The idea of exposed skin in this weather was simply unnatural to the dwarf.

A few more minutes of silent shifting by both of them finally got Thorin's back resting comfortably again, with the hobbit's small frame starting to relax enough that his head came to rest naturally into the dwarf's shoulder. One of Thorin's arms around those smaller shoulders and the other lightly dropped on a fur-covered leg; his weapons' hilt and handle within reach. The leather flopped down against his head and the sides of it made a frequent rippling sound with the wind, but they were sheltered from all but the pervasive cold. Thorin felt himself start to truly settle. There was still danger from wargs, and he would keep watch and work to keep his muscles from stiffening to be ready to act, but he could let the stress ease, could breathe as close to peace as his life ever provided.

"Thank you."

Dropping his eyes from watching the white world beyond their gate for trouble, Thorin looked at his companion, the reflection on the snow giving just enough light to still see tiredness drawing dark eyes down. "We are in this together, there is no need for thanks. If you are hungry, I have some bread and meat left that we can share."

"...Not just now."

Suspecting he no more wanted to move when they'd just settled into some comfort than Thorin himself did, the dwarf nodded acceptance and returned to his watch.

As quiet descended, Thorin could feel the hobbit's tension mounting, but was helpless to help him deal with the memories and grief that he knew had to be rising to the surface. He was therefore less than surprised at the slightly desperate question suddenly muttered at him.

"Where do you come from?"

Thorin hesitated, debating what answer to give. The full truth was one he had not felt like offering in a very long time, and yet... "I lost my home many years ago. I live in the Blue Mountains, now."

The feel of a small hand coming to rest on his chest made him frown down in automatic reaction to pity, only to be caught by the very real sorrow pulling down the hobbit's lips as he spoke, "I'm sorry you lost your home."

Swallowing his incipient snarl, Thorin was instead stymied for a response. Contenting himself with a shrug before looking back outside as another bout of wind-broken silence spread.

"The Blue Mountains... Ered Luin?"

Thorin snorted without looking down, grumbling his answer, just loud enough to be heard, "Those tree-shagging elves call it that, yes." But then he frowned, curious: he would not have thought so many elves visited the Shire as to spread their names. "And how do you know that name, hobbit?"

"I like maps. And books. Where was your home?"

Thorin would later blame the way the lad's tone had lightened when given something to think of for the ease with which he let the next secret out. "In the Lonely Mountain..... Erebor." It had been so long since he'd said that name. He was unsurprised that it still brought that painful combination of horror and longing.

The awe in the hobbit's voice drew his eyes down as he spoke, though, "There's a dragon there!" Then Thorin saw horror suddenly spread on the stiff features, "Oh! I'm sorry..."

The dwarf nodded, finding sad solace in that horror, "As I am for you, mim azaghâl." No matter the count of friends he'd lost that day, Thorin knew the hobbit's loss hurt just as badly. There were some things that numbers did not truly make worse.

And the lad must indeed be fond of maps and foreign books to be familiar with a place as far away and out of current common knowledge as the Lonely Mountain. Let along to have heard of Smaug.

It was his own stomach that growled first, the morning's meal long gone. With a grunt of annoyance, he looked at the hobbit, "Can you eat?"

Though the lad looked less than enthused, Thorin decided that the tension most likely taking away his hunger would probably be improved with food anyway. He reached for the pack just past the hobbit's feet with his free hand, pulling out the blanket he'd left on top and dropping it on hobbit legs to reach for the food below.

Master Baggins sat up carefully and they shared a few silent bites of bread, meat and cheese. As he noticed the longing look sent the supplies he repacked, glad at least the lad's appetite had returned, he nodded at the storm, "If that lasts longer than the night, we might need the food to last us longer than I had planned for."

"I'm sorry, I meant to gather our supplies but.. but mother- mother was carrying our food. It was.. it was covered-"

*Mother*. Oh Mahal. Thorin settled the once again shivering hobbit back against his chest, arm tight around his shoulders, "Shhhh, look at *me*," he waited until the hobbit met his gaze, "I am sorry mim azaghâl. I.. did not realize they were your parents." He'd suspected, at the bottom of his mind, he had to admit that, but he'd hoped he was wrong. "I would not wish anyone else to suffer that." Least of all a hobbit child, used to nothing but peace.

The eyes filled with tears, "I am no warrior."

Thorin finished settling them back where they had been, though holding the lad tighter as he spoke, keeping his tone as quiet and comforting as he could while still being heard over the wind's wavering howl, trying not to remember his own loses, "You are brave. I can teach you the sword, but I cannot teach bravery. And that is what makes a warrior." The way the lad was keeping his pain from ruling him with just a bit of conversation to help was further proof of that bravery, to Thorin.

"I was scared."

"As you should be. And yet you deliberately distracted that beast to protect me, and then found a way to actually harm it."

"I couldn't let you die."

Thorin quirked a smile, leaning their foreheads together, pleased when the hobbit's eyes closed and his expression seemed to ease at the contact, though the tears still leaked. "Of course not, Master Baggins, but many would have been too frozen to react, let along think of a plan."

"Bilbo."

Thorin nodded, silently pleased at the permission, "..Thorin."

The wind shifted for an instant, sending cold streaming into their previously comfortable shelter and making Thorin shiver. When Bilbo wriggled, Thorin relaxed his hold and Bilbo took the blanket that had been left on his legs and threw it clumsily over the dwarf's shoulders to add to his existing blanket and cloak. Content that the furs had kept the hobbit from shivering, Thorin didn't argue, muttering instead, "You should sleep."

"..I..I don't want to."

Thorin, hearing the tiredness but understanding perfectly the reluctance to allow sleep to take him, did not even think of holding back his words, this time. Being treated as neither a prince nor 'dwarf-scum' was simply too unknown a feeling. Respect and empathy without an inch of deference or demand. It left him on uncertain footing, feeling almost beholden, but without his usual hatred of the feeling; he actually *wished* to help. Feeling uncomfortably exposed, he kept his sight on the treacherous white beyond their shelter as he spoke, "I can understand not wanting to sleep. I often dream of dragonfire. Of destruction; and death."

"I'm sorry. I wish your family was alive."

Thorin's breath caught as soft fingers stroked his beard, choked even more at realizing that no one had ever actually said those words to him. "Thank you. But you learn to live with sorrow, mim azaghâl."

Rather than risk the lad getting lost in his pain again, Thorin asked him of life in the Shire. Hoping it would not lead to dark thoughts of his parents.

At first hesitant, Bilbo slowly allowed himself to slide into homely memories. Talk of ordered gardens and lush fields left Thorin more confused than anything else, the words not bringing specific pictures to mind. But the pleasure in the hobbit's voice was clear to hear and easy to be content with. There was less pleasure in the brief descent into the Shire legalities of renting property and fields, but there was a firm core of conviction; the knowledge that it was his life and a necessary part of his people's lives. And *that*, Thorin understood completely.

And though it was like no council he had ever heard of, still the stories of accompanying his father to mediate disputes between neighbours in their 'farthing' made him grimace in sympathy. And a vague discomfort, knowing he would soon be facing such on a daily basis... and suspecting he would not be a fraction as useful as even this youth was. At least his insights into some of the foibles he described was clear and concise. Unlike the abrupt and swear-filled description that was all Thorin could come up with of any of the council meetings he recalled.

About the time the lad muttered about one of his few cousins having tried to usurp his place at his father's side for being too young, Thorin felt odd jerks to his scalp and looked down to see gentle fingers twisting and then combing through a section of his hair that had come to rest next to the hobbit's relaxed face. He almost warned Bilbo to stay away from the braids, but could not quite find the words. He had never truly believed in any holiness in braided hair. The Valar could not truly waste their time with caring if someone other than blood kin or one's mate touched a dwarf's braid? And for there to be some roundabout dispensation when one was too injured to make one's own braids? Or when it was accidental?

Beyond the suspiciously reason-less rule, there was the real fact that the hobbit's eyes followed the strokes with a dreamy calm settling over the previous tension. If such a small thing helped hold horror at bay, Thorin had to believe the Valar would agree there was no harm.

Unsurprisingly, the next topic was how different hobbit hair was, not to mention the lack of beards. And then grand parties were described, and the importance of pipeweed and beer, which Thorin found himself humming agreement with.

However, the loving description of long walks in woods as a child, dreaming of *elves*, of all things, had Thorin grumbling automatically, never able to let mention of his nemeses pass without comment.

Only this time his audience did not take the annoyance without comment. Instead, he found himself having to explain that the elves had left them to starve when the dragon had chased them from their home. He'd never actually *explained* such a thing. Usually shouted the accusations with fury, instead. It was oddly far more satisfying when Bilbo finally agreed that Thranduil's actions in refusing to aid hurt and starving dwarrows made him a bastard. More satisfying than any returned excited shout joining his hatred.

He supposed it was less than surprising, and his own fault, really, when a few minutes of silence was followed with a quieter question.

"How did you bear losing people you love?"

He looked down, frowning a little at the more private question. But he could see the grief once again pulling the corners of soft lips down tight. He leaned his head to rub a cheek on the very un-dwarf-like, but apparently typically hobbitish, curls on Bilbo's head, thinking back. Finally only coming up with one conclusion. "..By not thinking of it, mostly."

He felt his headrest try to shift, no doubt to give him a confused glare, which he knew such an answer deserved, "..*How* did you not think of it?"

The words for that also took him a bit of searching, keeping his eyes out on the world, though he still leaned. The memories were easier to sift through than they usually were, when some need had sent him into that fiery dark before. It certainly didn't occur to him to complain when those soft fingers did end up on a braid. The symbol of the very clan whose shattering he was picturing, stroked and wrapped around soft fingers. "My people were... homeless. Injured, grieving, hungry. There were many other things I needed to think of."

It took a moment to shift from pride at himself for managing to explain himself so clearly, to feeling the tension growing again in the body leaning on his. Then he had to lift his head as Bilbo turned a worried frown up at him, "But you're not starving now, are you?"

And one of those soft hobbit hands touched the bare skin of his cheek, fingertips stroking under his cheekbone, where he knew there *had* once been deep hollows.

And Thorin froze at the soft touch, taking a moment to realize what that strange concern in the frown looking up at him meant. To realize that if he and his people *were* still hungry, this young one, who had likely never before spoken more than the odd word of commerce with a dwarf, had no obligation or reason to help, and was facing famine himself, would be trying to help them.

And he could not speak. Felt a weight press on his chest; for a moment buried under the memories of all the faces that had turned away and refused to help him and his for over a hundred years.

"Thorin?"

He hadn't realized he'd closed his eyes until he heard that soft worried voice and saw darkness. Opening them, he found he'd leaned into the hand that now cradled his face. And though he jerked upright in embarrassment to have forgotten himself so in front of anyone... He could not deny that he felt lighter, could look at the people who had spurned him and... the anger he felt was tempered by the sudden certainty that there was one who would offer him sanctuary and comfort.

He still made sure his expression was properly closed before he answered, though inside an echo of wonder rang through him again for the hobbit. And his voice was shockingly soft and rough, even to his ears, "No. We are no longer starving. We have finally made a fair life in the Blue Mountains."

That Bilbo smiled so widely, his eyes brightening away from grief for a moment, was further proof of that unconditional sanctuary. "I'm glad."

There were minutes of silence as Thorin watched the snow piling up beyond their shelter. Tomorrow's travel was going to be difficult, even for him, let along the smaller hobbit. The warm weight resting against him was shifting gently and he knew from a glance when it had started that the hobbit was nodding his bare cheek against the trim of his makeshift blanket. Even ragged and grime-filled as it was, Thorin knew just how comfortingly soft his coat's fur was; he was glad if it was enough to give Bilbo pleasant distraction from his memories as well.

Still, Thorin decided they both could use something stronger, to withstand the chill if nothing else, and reached into his pack for a flask, taking a small swallow and handing it to his companion as he took a deep breath to savour the burn. If he'd expected the young hobbit to choke on harsh dwarven brandy, he would have been disappointed at the mere blinks of surprise he got instead before the flask was handed back.

"That was *not* a smooth drink."

The prim words, only barely roughened by the burning of the very *rough* drink, caught Thorin right to the heart and he was laughing out loud before he'd realized it was coming. It only lasted a moment, but it was a shock. He could not remembered the last time he'd laughed from actual pleasure, and his face still felt shifted out of position, even now that he was certain he was back to his normal expression.

Bilbo's grin as he stared at him was fair payment for the minor discomfort, however. Especially when he followed it with more of his happy chatter of home. This time about his extended family, though it did not sound as though any were of an age with him. It led to mention of the Thain, who was apparently his grandfather. Which, if Thorin remembered the information Dís had long ago given him about their far neighbours in the Shire, made Bilbo the equivalent of a lord, though she had said the hobbits did not care about the trappings of power.

Sadly, from the Thain, the hungry winter that had already caused rationing rules throughout the Shire was an unavoidable topic. "And it won't be enough." Thorin frowned deeply at the serious tone, remembering that Bilbo had sounded wise when speaking of the disputes; if things were this bad... the Blue Mountains would likely be affected as well. "Unless the other farthings have much more food than we found.. There's going to be a lot people...." he shook his head, unwilling to say it aloud. But Thorin had watched the young, the old and the injured die of starvation. He knew what Bilbo saw coming. And found his arms tightening around the body resting trustingly against him.

There was nothing he could do to help them. Every scrap of gold he had or made, now or in the future, belonged by rights to his people. And they would never willingly share it with the Hobbits. Though he *would* make damned certain to find a Dúnedain before continuing home. And wargs *were* a danger to the dwarrows; he was entirely within his rights to order heavy long-range hunting parties for those. And if they happened to cut across the Northern orcs' access to the Shire, well that was also part of the path the creatures would take to the Blue Mountains.

But none of that would insure the survival of one hobbit.

"Father-" Thorin tightened his arms even further at the break in the hobbit's voice, "Father said hobbits would survive. That we are tougher than even *we* think. We've had to be to survive with so many bigger folk in the world. But Mother... mother said no one can stand alone in the end. That the Rangers would come through and help us. Or that the Thain would find other help, further afield."

The hobbit huffed, then, and Thorin looked down when he felt the head lift from his chest, meeting a sadly amused shadow of a grin, "What do you think would happen if the Thain sent to the Blue Mountains for help?"

Thorin snorted before he could help himself, regretting the truth of the response, but refusing to lie to the lad, refusing to endanger him with false hope; the hobbits should not waste time and resources trying to reach the Blue Mountains. "Nothing helpful, I'm afraid. Strangers are neither welcome in our halls, nor do we dwarrows, let alone those of us that survived the famine after Erebor, offer to help strangers." Though if Thorin received such a call... But he could already imagine the council scene. There was no power in his grandfather's title these days.

"Well. Perhaps the elves from the Grey Havens would help."

"...I would not put any faith in such a thought, I hope you will warn your grandfather." As much as he hated the elves and expected they would provide as little help as his people... it was a measure of his fear for the hobbits' survival that he did not say more to discourage their contacting the arrogant point-ears.

After too long passed in silence, Thorin looked down, knowing Bilbo did not sleep from the continued shifting of his hair. Unsurprised to find tear-trails on his cheeks, he leaned his head down again.

Keeping his eyes on the forest, he deliberately made his tone deep and even, hoping to lull him to sleep. And started speaking of home. Of Dís and Frerin and Balin and Dwalin and the trouble they all got into as dwarflings. Of the beauty of the mountain and its wonders of jewels and gold and silver. Of his mother's harp, his father's flying daggers. Of the name of his clan, touching Bilbo's fingers where they smoothed the braid and bead marking him of Durin.

Eventually his vice turned hoarse and Bilbo quietly chimed in with more about parties, and games played, and as they exchanged odd details of their very different lives, Thorin was able to acknowledge that there *were* times of light and laughter to be remembered. The past was not all blood-drenched loss and pain; and so likely the future not entirely made of wearing frustration. He was doing himself, and Erebor, a disservice, to allow himself to forget the reasons they must continue to fight.

The storm's heavy clouds had made darkness fall earlier, the day before, but once it passed, so late as to be early, the white carpet it left behind made the first lightening of pre-dawn spread like morning, though it brought no warmth. The weight against his chest had gotten heavier as Bilbo gave in to sleep, and Thorin settled in to a quiet watch until they could get under way. But when the sun came through with a biting cold, Thorin allowed himself to drowse lightly, knowing that wargs had no love of daylight. He would need his strength if he were to move them both through the deep snows rippled before their refuge to reach the hobbit's home, and Bilbo would need to be rested to keep his sense of direction through the cold.

--------------------------

He was awakened by a sharp wriggling, and an unfortunately placed elbow in his side.

"Umph," he grunted, eyes springing open instantly and fingers already twitching for his weapons.

The hobbit, for his part, gazed back at him sheepishly. "I need to-" limp curls jerked toward the opening to the snowy-laden forest, "...outside?"

Rubbing a hand over his face, Thorin took note of the brightness and the changed direction of the light invading their shelter. "We should make ready to depart, in any case. We are nearing the warmest hours of the day, little though it feels like it."

The hobbit nodded, and fumbled loose from Thorin's furs, his haste in scrambling into the cold, away from their warmth, betraying just how long he had been denying his bladder, making Thorin quirk a rueful smile at himself for not having been woken by his tension.

Once nature had been answered, they shared more of his travel fare and went through the unpleasant exercise of cleaning each other's infected wounds and refreshing the bandages before making ready to travel and taking stock of their surroundings.

"I've never seen so much snow."

Thorin hoped that meant there would soon be less as they neared the lad's home. "I have seen it. But I have never had to travel in it." And glad he was to have avoided winter in the Northern areas during his wanderings, now. "Hunters in the North say that when it is truly cold, they bury themselves in the snow and it is warmer."

Bilbo turned a very dubious look on him, apparently searching for teasing, "Really?"

"Um. But I do not think even I am dressed warmly enough to wish to attempt it. We need to be moving."

Left to himself, Thorin would have been glad for the sun's direction and tried to remember the bones of maps of the area; he was more than glad that he could instead trust Bilbo's assurances that he knew the way from here, and simply focus on breaking a path where his small guide indicated.

Of course, as suspected, Bilbo's estimate of 'less than an hour' was rather short of the mark, hours of gruelling effort passing as Thorin forced his legs through snow up to his thighs and all too often packed down by that wind that had fought with his leather sheet through the night. Though he worried the lad would be cold, walking behind him in only his furs, still an uneven cover even after he'd thought to use string to bind it closed over his chest. Especially with the injury weakening him. But the hobbit seemed strong enough as he followed stoically, and offering to carry him seemed more likely to offer insult. Aside from slowing them even more, and he had no wish to be caught in the open by nightfall.

At least the strain of their trek went a long way toward warding off the cold of the too-still air, and the depth of the snow did soon lessen as the land sloped slightly down. Unfortunately the lower area seemed to have gotten more of the ice pellets, so they did not significantly get to speed their pace.

What had to be at least three hours, and the landscape had changed a great deal from that twisted forest and its dead surroundings. They were now surrounded by flatter areas of snow bordered by humped ridges suggesting the farmland and fences that must lay below, based on Bilbo's stories, sleeping fallow until spring, though there were no signs of houses such as Thorin was used to seeing in the lands of Men.

When he commented on the lack of dwelling places, wondering where the farmers and their families were, let along their animals, the hobbit giggled behind him, and pointed out small mounds, often sheltered by large trees sticking out of the assumed fields, "Hobbits live in smials. Holes dug into the ground." When Thorin squinted, he could just make out shadows that resolved as round doors, which he realized must lead to the underground burrows, the thought of which he thoroughly approved. Now that he could recognize the homes, he could also make out short posts stuck in the ground, with boxes topping them, near each doorway, though he had no idea of their function, other than acting as a flag to aid his unfamiliar eyes to mark each dwelling.

Eventually, having cut through a small stand of trees, they struck what Bilbo said was a main road, today nothing but a wider area of shallower, more wind-swept snow between fence ridges than the narrow meandering lanes they'd avoided, where iced hillocks and beaten white furrows fought for rule of the buried path. They'd stopped to brush some of the excess snow off themselves, now that they were less likely to have to wade so deeply through the stuff, and for Bilbo to reckon exactly where he was, when Thorin heard the sound of hooves dragging through the shallow snow and managing to clap on stone below it, and Deathless was in his hands without a thought.

Bilbo, for his part, had his staff firmly clutched between his hands almost as quickly, jumpy and obviously responding to Thorin and his own fear after everything that had happened, and scowled fiercely at the dwarf when Thorin swept him behind himself. He dimly realized the traveller was most likely one of the peaceful inhabitants, Bilbo's friends and neighbours, but he'd survived by being wary for far too long to be a fool now.

It only took a few moments for the waggon to come around the trees into plain view, weathered wood creaking with the cold, pulled by a sturdy chestnut-brown pony, with a brilliant white lick at its forehead, well-groomed and cared for. Thorin was unsurprised to see another hobbit sitting atop the waggon, as well-rounded as the stories had left Thorin to expect, wearing a serviceable cloak, pale even under the dusting of snow, hooded and thick; much more practical than Bilbo's neat coat.

At the sight of Thorin, sword drawn, standing on the road, the cart pulled to an abrupt stop some yards away, and Thorin let Deathless's point drop at the wide eyes in a smooth face, older than Bilbo, though just as untouched by hard years; and rounded enough to make famine seem a distant thing indeed.

From behind him, Bilbo impatiently pushed Thorin's restraining hand away and shoved his way to the fore. "Master Gamgee!" he called, and something disquieting went through Thorin to realize that they had made it to safety, and that his young companion would soon no longer need his assistance.

---------------------

Master Gamgee's small waggon got them to the hobbit's home in less than half an hour, Thorin holding his companion close again to warm them both as they sat unmoving, suddenly, the sweat of their previous exertions chilling on they skin. Bilbo haltingly telling the older hobbit how they'd come to be wandering in the wake of the storm. Thorin kept him all the closer as he shivered and paled, remembering details of the attack that Thorin suspected Master Gamgee would have preferred not to hear as their driver sent them worried looks and began to dart glances at the silent country-side.

Opening one of those odd round door just as Thorin lifted the case of staples that had shared their ride, the good master's wife took one look at young Bilbo and bundled him into what became a warm warren, past the too-low door and scrupulously-clean doormat that the dam glared him firmly to after Gamgee gingerly poked him ahead of himself.

As Thorin tried to brush his boots into a semblance of cleanliness, she sent her husband back out to get a doctor before pointing Thorin to a door off to the left, "Take that box into the kitchen once those.. boots.. are clean. Then take off your coat and go through into the living room." Muttering and fussing, she firmly tugged Bilbo down the rounded corridor opening a few steps in front of the entrance.

Box left next to the doorway to the brightly-lit kitchen, where pots and utensils hung from the ceiling neatly as ranked soldiers and the smell of cooking apples coming from a stone oven, Thorin slowly made his way to the opening leading into another room, more rounded walls that made him hunch even when his head was not in danger, these covered in a pale blue like the sky they'd just come in from under rather than the naturally light wood of the entrance room.

What the lady had called the living room had several large armchairs and other well-padded sitting areas; toys, books, incomplete carvings and knittings scattered in far more chaos than the kitchen had been allowed to entertain. Though the wooden furniture was just as pale and well-waxed, the same faint scent of lavender sharing air with the beech burning in the fireplace that dominated a wall, built reassuringly square as its chimney reached up through the ceiling.

He'd only been standing a few moments, content to warm himself in a place safe from wargs and orcs -for now- when Bilbo was ushered in with more fussing, now wearing a clean, thick work shirt, loose and stained, which was just as well since Thorin could see his bandage under it, no doubt adding another layer of stain to the material. The fresh pair of too-short trousers were equally rough and warm-looking, and Bilbo was firmly settled in front of the fire in one of the soft chairs, a padded quilt tucked around him as Thorin watched approvingly, and soon they were both handed heavy cups of warm tea by their host, Thorin bemusedly ordered, with another sharp glare that seemed to be a common knack of hobbits, to sit himself down and stop looming, before Mistress Gamgee muttered her way back to the kitchen once again.

Enjoying the warmth of the cup he carefully cradled more than the bitter smell of the tea's steam, Thorin sat hesitantly in the most solid-seeming chair he found and then met Bilbo's amused eyes.

"You are welcome to stay for as long as you like." The young hobbit's amusement dimmed into a mix of grief and simple tiredness, "Bag End, my.. home, is more than large enough for guests."

Thorin could almost see the events of the previous day pilling in on him again. The Gamgees' care gave truth to the lad's stories of being a respected member of society, which also meant he was going to have responsibilities to deal with, along with his grief. He nodded, burying a moment's unfamiliar wistfullness, "You will be busy enough not to need further complications. And I need to make my way to the Blue Mountains before this early winter makes travel even more impassable."

Bilbo smiled sad understanding, "We will get you a few fresh supplies, at least. And let the doctor see your arm. Sleep the night, here -the Gamgees would be pleased to repay your help to me-, or at the Green Dragon, if you prefer. Then in the morning you can start with the sun."

It was late enough already that he did not particularly feel like turning his back on a night behind warm, safe, walls, especially knowing the week, at least, of travel ahead of him. He settled for a nod of agreement as their host appeared with a board of sweets and more of the tea.

Once they'd had their fill and she left again, frowning in the direction of another rounded hallway from which Thorin had heard the sound of children, a few times, Thorin stretched, and reluctantly got ready to leave, in no mood for a doctor and knowing Bilbo would not argue overmuch. He stepped closer to crouch by the young hobbit, "If you ever have need, bâhith, know that you can call on me," he raised a hand when Bilbo's lips parted, lowering his voice to be sure Mistress Gamgee would not hear, "It means friend that is young. Give my name to a dwarf and tell them I named you such, and you should find your way to me."

When the hobbit-dam returned, he accepted a hard bread that would survive travel well enough, but refused more, aware even if she wasn't that she would need every crumb to keep her family alive in the coming months.

With a last nod of thanks to both of them as they waved him on his way, Thorin repeated Bilbo's fairly simple route to the inn, trying not to be distracted by the odd peace of the quiet Shire and the disquieting concern that Bilbo and his people might soon lose this.

Warm light from little windows, round like those odd doors, now breaking the falling dusk to make the 'smials' more obviously dwellings. Smoke rising from most of the buried hillocks under which lived hobbit families. Every so often he would hear voices, laughter and cries, through the thick earthen walls. They seemed a merry lot, and Bilbo and the Gamgees' friendliness spoke well for them. He wondered if his kin would ever find such peace again in his lifetime.

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